by Judith Mehl
She paused while Detective Burrows concentrated on her description. He nodded for her to continue and she gave him a brief tournament overview, telling how satellites managed by the International Tennis Federation were scheduled in geographically clustered four-week blocks and offered little financial incentive.
Always the gentleman, the detective opened her front door as she finished. “Once the players reach the top 200, tennis becomes a legitimate career for them, with maybe a hope for the future. A ranking under that magical number is a world away from the Grand Slams, the Tennis Masters Series, even the Challengers and Futures events. So here we have the players, their entourage, the groupies, and the tournament management, not to mention hundreds of legitimate tennis fans.”
“Terrific! Who can we see for a list of names?”
Kat checked the notebook. “Ed’s assistant, John Simpson, should be able to help you with most questions.” She flipped through the pages and found his phone number. Burrows left, satisfied for a while.
Meanwhile, maybe a little lucky handwriting sleuthing with Maddy could turn up samples—clues to lead them in the right direction. It served as a personality test for suspects. She would look for red flags of violence or cruelty, like club strokes (thick pressure at end of words). She’d search out symbolic camouflage for guilt feelings, distrust or guardedness like black spots (a dot along edge of letter). These could pinpoint some suspicious characters.
They just needed time to snoop around Ed’s office and look for notes, unearth conflicts—anything the police might have ignored. Kat sought fingerprints of the mind, something detectives didn’t always consider.
Until then, she would help Tom contain the bad press that trumped her capacity as manager of tournament public relations. Now that the university and the tournament were intertwined with death, they needed to closely combine marketing efforts.
After working out a game plan with her boss, and a chain of command for informing university and tournament officials of the incident, Kat walked to the tennis site, stopping only to inform those with the greatest need-to-know about the morning’s death and subsequent investigation. Since most of the plans had been determined the evening before, everyone was able to maintain the day’s tournament schedule. Despite the lack of the “murder” word, the horror of the death ricocheted across campus ahead of her, and damage control became her main concern.
Warm, dry weather served as perfect background for fans interested in a day out. Tourists packed the booths, and the tennis aficionados filled the stands, but the beginning of the tournament seemed to move in slow motion. Even the players were lethargic. Was it end-of-the-season blues? Too late in the season to affect their rankings? A fun night that overran its bounds into this morning? Or did the word “death” lay a film over the normal effervescence of the tennis crowd?
She headed toward the indoor area of the sports arena and found Cheri, one of her favorite student workers, so bright she glowed. Cheri was an artist who wore her work—from her striped hair to her inch-long fuchsia nails and black lipstick, to the phosphorescent mesh tubes constricting the blood vessels in her torso.
As they walked, Kat provided the necessary information for Cheri to return to the office and prepare statistics in advance of the next day’s press releases. They passed massive inflated tennis balls, three to an 8-foot transparent can, guarding the entrance to the sports arena. Green and white balloon tiers reached skyward, sentinels to the sportswear alcove. The K-Swiss clothing booth caught her student’s attention and Kat nudged her forward.
Later Kat and several professors watched Ted Wright nod acknowledgement to each section of fans, then served the first ball of the men’s satellite tournament. The fans adored the easy-going friendly tennis star. On his first point he almost smashed the ball down his opponent’s throat. Thus were the contrasts of tournament play. The holy hush as the ball went into play signaled the local fans’ appreciation.
Dr. Simon Santora, chair of the chemistry department, bounced up and down next to Kat and cheered great strokes by both players. His choppy beard and slight slash of a mustache made a futile effort to soften his face. He wasn’t loved for his appearance, but for his forthrightness and caring. A sometimes tennis player, and forever fan, Simon was a close friend of Kat, and her husband, Nick.
“Did you see that?” Simon shouted, slapping Kat a little too boisterously on the arm. “What a shot! If only I could move like that!”
She grabbed a large notebook from her voluminous bag and in exaggerated strokes wrote Simon’s name across the top with numerous tiny squiggles underneath. Simon ogled the hieroglyphics trying to decipher her writing.
He finally broke in. “What’s that?”
“It’s my tally of your assaults on my arm. Each one earns me a scientific question researched in full by yours truly.”
Simon smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wallop you, but one of these days I’m going to analyze your handwriting. That chicken scratching probably reveals a psychosis or two.”
Kat laughed and put away the notebook. “Says the man who only reads words if they carry subscripts every other letter.”
The tennis lover in Kat prompted acceptance of his apology and she turned to Maddy on her right. Maddy’s head swiveled back and fourth to follow the tennis ball as she cheered her favorite player. Her brunette hair waved wildly around the heart-shaped face that drove swains to spout poetry. Her soulful eyes clinched the attraction.
Maddy didn’t want to take those eyes off Ted, but the match was too intense to miss just because she was in the throes of love. Some things always took precedence, and a great tennis match was one of them. So she gave equal attention to both sides of the court as the match raced toward conclusion.
Ted’s elongated face balanced a pair of tortoise wrap glasses sporting a metallic bar that slipped repeatedly on his slick nose. The sun glistened on the sweat coursing down his face and ricocheted off the cords of his racquet. Rivulets snaked down his forearm, making detours around dampened clumps of hair, and soaked the racquet grip.
This curly-haired golden boy wilted in the heat. The kinky curls drooped in the humidity, not unlike the player’s stamina. The infinitesimal shoulder slump caused the ball to punch into the tape and bounce back.
Still riling at the last lost point, the next serve almost slammed past his outreached forehand. He exerted the extra effort on the return, and his opponent ran down the passing shot in vain.
Maddy cheered wildly with the rest of the fans, tugging her eyes off Ted’s supple body enough to glance at Kat. The affair with Ted was new and compelling, and she sought her friend’s approval at every step.
“Come on. You know he’s great.”
“Actually, I agree. At least his tennis is, but look at the racquet and ball. Tennis is more than muscle.”
Maddy’s involvement prior to this part had been batting her lashes at the players during the official welcoming reception of the Mountain View Men’s’ Championships yesterday afternoon. She was thrilled for her friend’s sake that the tournament’s luck took an upswing as this opening session began. Ted unwillingly had been a part of Kat’s publicity nightmare—dealing with a tournament that verged on notoriety before it had even begun.
It was dubbed “The Jinxed” the week before when Ted arrived early. Unfortunately, Ed Ambrose was there too, and they clashed with the clang of symbols. Ted’s argument with the tournament manager won him a spot on national TV, one he could have done without, one the tournament could have done without. His reputation had been maligned and he was fighting it, but the effort painted him with an even darker brush. Now, with Ambrose’s death, the university and Ted Wright needed a brighter spot of color soon.
Despite Maddy’s romantic interest in the man she wondered where Ted had been before dawn, figuring Kat would ask soon. The publicity incident hadn’t affected her own fascination with the man, but murder might. Meanwhile she was mesmerized by the bright sun glinting off
his glasses as he raced across the back court. Maddy remembered that indoors he switched to a more subtle pair of copper wire rims that glowed against his golden complexion. He’d seduced her with those eyes at the tournament reception. Later he’d looked even better without any glasses at all.
Prompted by Kat, Maddy attempted to switch gears from his bedroom moves back to the court action. She’d never played tennis in her life but maybe it was time to rise from the ranks of all-knowing statistician to finally learn the game on the court. As the crowd surged upward in applause she speculated on the odds of convincing Ted Wright to provide some free lessons.
Her eyes sparkled at the possibilities as she settled back in her seat, but not before she spied the intense concentration of Sloan O’Malley, the woman sitting next to her in the cool suit and heels despite the heat. Maddy prodded her shoulder, only half playfully. “O’Malley, get your eyes off my man!”
“Maddy, every eye in the place is on your man, why bitch at me?”
“You’re openly drooling and they’re not.”
Sloan O’Malley dealt with the elderly and evening students but was better known as the campus vamp. She chuckled huskily. Her porcelain blond hair formed a tight cap on her head, well sculpted and too artfully colored to be sun bleached. Sloan was not into sports of any kind, just sportsmen, and was definitely not a tennis fan. Kat knew for Sloan the tournament was heaven—lots of luscious taut skin, richly tanned and glistening in the sunlight.
Knowing that Sloan was always open minded Kat watched her light up a cigarette, glance casually around, and point with the lit end toward her right. “Okay, how about that sleek stud standing in the sidelines waiting for his match? Is he fair game, Maddy?”
“But Sloan, he’s half your age!”
Sloan took a drag off the cigarette and exhaled slowly. Her eyebrows danced lustily, “I know!”
Kat laughed with Maddy at Sloan’s response, remembering the woman’s play for Kat’s husband, Nick, before they married. Nick would be joining them later. Their courtship had been frantic, and fraught with peril as they’d confronted a killer, and waltzed around each other in uncertainty. Sloan had received more than one daggered look from Kat during that time, but peace had reigned once they’d reached the understanding that Nick was off grounds to the ever-roaming femme fatale. They chatted as friends now, while Sloan moaned in glee as sweat slithered off the thighs and calves of the godly Scandinavian. Her typical robust comment was interrupted by the sight of John Simpson tearing down the steps nearby.
She tapped Kat’s hand. “He must be berserk with Ambrose gone, though he won’t be missed by most.”
Kat wasn’t too startled. That was Sloan’s style. Tell it like it is.
Sloan continued, “What a boor Ambrose was. Saturday night he ruined the evening at Steelwinders. Everyone looked as if their beer had turned sour the way they were all staring into their mugs trying to avoid his wrath.”
Kat’s eyes never left the play as she responded. “Anything in particular set him off?”
“He’s been riled about the dismal turnout at his new tennis center for weeks, but this time it was David Nettle that revved up his ire. And David started it, amazingly enough. Can you believe he knew Ambrose years ago when they both vied for the same role in a movie featuring an up-and-coming tennis player?”
Simon, who’d been at Mountain View University longer than any of them, said. “Let me guess, Ambrose shafted David somehow.”
Sloan and Kat’s heads swiveled simultaneously from the court to Simon—Kat with an inquisitive eye, and Sloan with an appreciative look.
“Good guess,” Sloan said. “When they were both on the touring circuit they were invited to try out for the lead in a film. Ambrose was supposed to notify David of the change in tryout times and conveniently didn’t bother. By the time David found out, Ambrose already had the contract signed.”
Focused on the match, Simon added, “So? The movie obviously wasn’t a box office hit or Ambrose would be a star by now.”
“True, but David Nettle was on a tear about it for some reason. Ambrose’s been back in town and running this tournament for years. With David being the university tennis coach you’d think they’d have gone rounds on it ages ago,” Sloan said.
Mentally setting aside news about Nettle’s conflict with Ambrose for later speculation, Kat was relieved to finally watch the tournament in action. Preliminary plans had been fraught with problems for the university, but at least things seemed to have calmed down once the competition began today. Earlier she worked off tension with quick treks around the track and daydreams of sandy beaches and rum punch. Then, after a quick change of clothes always kept handy in her office, Kat settled back to enjoy the match, crossing her legs and cheerfully bouncing her foot to admire strappy Vera Wang sandals that replaced her sneakers. She noticed Sloan enviously sneaking a look at her sandals. Sloan’s excess salary went up in cigarette smoke, while Kat’s was held in custody until the next shoe sale. Her money set aside for a rainy day never bled into the shoe money. Although, maybe those snappy rain boots on sale in town might slide through. This was the life—as long as she didn’t focus on Ed’s death and the aftermath to come.
Kat recalled studying David’s handwriting once, casually, and remembered that he knotted his ‘t’s, a sign that he wouldn’t let go of an idea. Looks like he couldn’t forget the slight. And she should check into the data on the tennis center. Burrows probably knew about it but it wouldn’t hurt to mention the meager membership stats to him in case his team hadn’t ferreted it out yet.
Sloan nudged Kat once again to look at the exposed abs of Marcelo Sabatini as he reached high for an overhead slam. Kat barely noticed the golden body as she pondered how Ed’s demise would affect the tournament.
Chapter 3
Extreme rightward slants imply racing forward impulsively and out of control. Okay, if your impulses are good, but if they are triggered by hate, the results can be dangerous.
“Handwriting Analysis” by P. Scott Hollander
Death’s harbinger reached beyond the body to instill dread in corners where none lurked before. A death of unknown motive widened that scope even more. Volunteers usually swarmed to their secluded and reserved lounge between matches, eager to imbibe in free drinks and borrowed esteem. Today, subdued whispers revealed that the story of Ed Ambrose had reached the ranks. Kat listened but could say or do little until the chief released information on the death. For now, she would tour the grounds and play the public relations game as if a shroud didn’t cover the usual hype.
Ted ended the match triumphantly as Kat inched her way out of the bleachers. She’d watched for a while, hoping to force away the blues. Instead, she found herself searching the expressions of spectators and was happy to see they looked carefree while fascinated by the close match. A sweep of the area for any local press or cameramen proved illusive. Her job was to make theirs easier. Regardless of her misgivings, she bounded down the stairs, her blond hair swinging in sync with her vivacious step.
Despite the picture-perfect first full day and successful opening ceremonies yesterday, Kat couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that the “Jinxed” part of the tournament had yet to run its course. Her long legs propelled her through the crowd to another vantage point, looking for weak spots—over-rambunctious fans, frantic-looking volunteers, and angry tennis players. She found none and smiled.
Kat knew some of the students and gave a friendly wave to two girls with primary color hair. Though the fall session had yet to begin, there were some students embroiled in the last classes of summer, and others, devoted students and professors, returned early to catch the championships every August. The tournament indeed drew fans, which meant constant foot traffic for craft vendors, but also punks on bikes, and sticky snow cones melting on the pavement. Kat loved it all. It briefly distracted her from thoughts of Ed, and death, and elusive motives.
She assessed the crowds as she walked, grateful for the
respectable turnout. This was definitely not a major league tournament, but it was the university’s own and all were proud of it. Some of the university clubs and sports’ teams rallied round and staged an “event” around the tournament. The throngs of people and constant activity provided an energetic atmosphere between sets, kept fans around longer, and earned money for the organizations running the booths. The hype encouraged fans to wait in line for signatures of only slightly-known players and gave them a chance to mingle with the pros.
Prussian blue dominated the color palette, with various stalls touting such diverse sponsors as airlines, newspapers, sports camps, pure water, insurance, and the tennis tour itself. Sponsors changed from one tournament to the next but the causes didn’t. They continually pursued the fan. “Buy me! Give me your loyalty.” Back on the courts, even the elevated umpire chair served double duty for even more sponsor banners while players quietly progressed with what some forgot was the main event—playing the game.
Contenders for the second match batted practice balls around. Alejandro Aguilar was pitted against the Brazilian, Eduardo Mendoza. Both unknowns, they’d traveled far in miles and dreams to get here. She watched them warm up for a minute and speculated on the price they must have paid, in blood and money, to try one of the tournaments in the states. The information she acquired in the interviews last night was valuable for publicity, but also opened her eyes to the heartbreak and strain of the players.
Eduardo was the favored player of the two, but Alejandro, with a lock of his full black hair continually falling across his brow, was a hit with the college coeds. He knew how to play the crowd. He stomped around in a circle near the net, raising his racquet skyward toward each set of bleachers and cheering for the fans. They loved it. They were lined up at the fence and filled the bleachers as the call for play to begin hushed the stadium.
